


No Tears in Heaven

by Whreflections



Series: Post Carry On Feels Sampler Box [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Bobby/Rufus centric, F/M, Heaven, M/M, Poly V, Polyamory, Post-Episode: s15e20 Carry On, Sort Of, Winchester Family Feels (Supernatural), mostly pre the end of the episode I guess, the wincest is an incredibly brief subtle mention, the wincestiel is in the future
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-01
Updated: 2020-12-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:07:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27815803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whreflections/pseuds/Whreflections
Summary: When Heaven opens up, Bobby's heart knows exactly where he wants to go, and it keeps trying to take him there.The problem is, his head knows too much.  There's plenty he's certain he can't have, not even in Paradise.
Relationships: Bobby Singer/Karen Singer, Bobby Singer/Rufus Turner, Castiel/Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, John Winchester/Mary Winchester
Series: Post Carry On Feels Sampler Box [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2035330
Comments: 4
Kudos: 13





	No Tears in Heaven

**Author's Note:**

> Bobby and Rufus are probably my favorite rare pair, so of course I had to do this. I couldn't resist- and there may be more in the future if I need some fluff lol

Bobby watched the Berlin Wall fall on a shit TV in the Peachtree Motor Inn outside of Atlanta. They were on the tail of a cockatrice, the case barely started and nearly stalling out. At first, Rufus was cleaning his guns at the table; Bobby had already been reading in bed. By the time real damage was being done to the thing, they were side by side; he could feel Rufus’ heat. He hadn’t showered; he still smelled like the MARTA. Any other time, Bobby would have pushed him out of bed. 

Instead, he’d reached over to take his hand. 

Behind the static, chunks of concrete fell with a certain cacophony that was hidden by waves of jubilation. The cheering filled the streets—a moment without the need for fluency. The surreality of it all stirred within him, trailing weight through his thoughts. With the job they worked, it was oddly easy to forget, sometimes, that the real world and all its human problems continued to go on around them. This, it was earth shattering, but the day before he’d have had to confess that he hadn’t thought about its existence often enough. He had enough messes closer to home. 

Rufus’ fingers squeezed around his. “I’ll be damned. It’s a whole new world, Bobby. Let’s hope they know what to do with it.”

“Does anyone ever know what to do with a clean slate? This ain’t even clean. They’ll be waiting for the other shoe to drop,” Bobby said, because he couldn’t help himself. He had learned, after Karen. There was always another shoe to drop. 

“Sometimes there is no other shoe. I’m pretty sure this whole damn business was their second shoe—or their third, or the fourth—they’ve been beat to hell so much that—”

“Yeah, I know. I know.”

“Hand me that phone,” Rufus said. Looking over, the light from the TV reflected back to Bobby in his eyes, blue grey over rich brown. “I want to make sure she’s watching. She’ll want to remember this when she’s older.”

Any other time, he’d have told Rufus he could march his ass down to the street and call from a payphone, not charge long distance up to Vermont to their fucking motel room—but it wasn’t any other night. On a night that had been a night of mourning for people of his faith since their neighbors had turned on them, here was a move in the inverse. Germany was pulling itself together rather than tearing itself apart, all grit and determination and bloodied nails, sledgehammers and chisels and chanting into the dark, rising up on clear air to the stars. 

Bobby wondered what the dissonance might have been, to press the two nights up against each other, the sounds layered. Fire, and clarity. Horror, and joy. Bigotry, and hope. Doing research, once, he’d read a theory that in some places, the world could fold like fabric. Two histories, for a moment looking each other in the eye—not a mirror, but an example. Only a lesson to those paying attention. 

Bobby passed over the chipped handset. 

In the first few years after that night, if he looked back on it, Bobby would remember most the sounds of metal on metal beneath the singing, off tempo from the rhythm he found in bed with Rufus. They hadn’t turned the TV off to fuck, or to sleep—it kept going, and he could pull to his mind when he wanted the glow of unnatural light across Rufus’ stomach, a swell of singing layered against the drag of Rufus’ beard along the curve of his shoulder. He would remember how they fell asleep with that distant harmony humming out into the air around them, and for a few hours they hadn’t worried about the case. He would remember that it had crossed his mind that someday, they might retire, and it would be that easy all the time—Rufus’ weight against him because he’d passed out without bothering to roll over and Bobby hadn’t asked him to, the glow of a TV off walls that didn’t have peeling paper. 

After Omaha, Bobby remembered the phone. Navy blue and cold, its hard line pressing into Rufus’ shoulder, the cord stretching over his arm and Bobby’s lap—and Rufus, talking with his mouth and one unseen hand, telling Jaliyah she was watching history. 

Grounding the moment, cementing it for her so that when she was old, she wouldn’t forget. 

There was always another shoe.

======

When the wall in Heaven comes down, there’s nothing to watch—at least, there wasn’t from inside of the walls of Heaven’s prison. He feels the shudder of it, though; feels the fundamental shift, and Bobby steps out of lockdown through a door that opened at his very touch, and into the pine barrens. 

It’s so real, the damp ferns around his ankles are wetting his jeans. 

It’s a misty morning, just chilled, maybe late spring. The sun is barely on its way, the light through the trees pale and full of promise, and though the path that stretches out through rough trunks and open spaces isn’t familiar, he still knows this place, or what it’s trying to be. 

New Jersey, in 1988. There was a crocotta somewhere in the woods, and Rufus had pressed a hand to his chest.

_You stay in my line of sight, you hear me? I mean it; I’m not playing around with this thing. If I lose sight of you, I’m not answering your voice anywhere._

_Would you quit bitchin’? This ain’t my first hunt; if I lose your ass, I ain’t answering you, either._

It wasn’t the first time they’d said _I love you_ —and to an outsider’s ears, neither one of them had said it then at all, but they were both hunters. The meaning couldn’t be lost on either of them. It wouldn’t have been half as arresting, if not for the certainty that shook them both when their eyes met. 

Chasing a monster who drew his victims with the promise of a loved one, there had never been any doubt what they would each hear, never any wavering. They’d both known that peeling back their ribs to look inside them, that thing would feel first and foremost each other—the fact that it had settled so deep to be an automatic assumption just shoved that solid foundation in further. 

For half a minute at least they’d stood there like a goddamn Hallmark movie, just looking. Mutual terror and love, not a damn thing that needed saying. The memory as Bobby holds it in his mind is so clear—when he looks back, he can hear the near jungle scream of a pileated woodpecker, feel the scab on the back of Rufus’ hand when he reaches out to hold it, pressing it in harder against his chest to steady them both. 

In an actual movie, they’d have kissed. In reality, they’d shaken it off, and done their fucking job, and he’d kissed Rufus once he had the monster’s blood on his hands like a goddamn adult. 

Yeah, he knows this place; he knows the pine barrens, but he knows, too, that this isn’t his memory. There’s a fallen tree that wasn’t there, and the path looks too defined, too cheery. There’s no Rufus—but he doesn’t have to be a rocket scientist to figure out where the path probably leads. 

“Nope,” Bobby says, to no one in particular, and everyone who might be listening. “I ain’t going that way.” 

He puts the rising sun to his back, and heads out of the woods instead. 

======

Out of the woods, there’s the galloping thud of heavy feet, just before Rumsfeld crashes into his thighs. 

He’d blame the out of control whining and hysterics on the years, but goddamn if he didn’t always act the same when Bobby’d walked down to get the mail. The memory flashes in his mind of hearing him scream, the absolutely powerlessness of it, and Bobby holds him so tight his hands hurt, his face buried in the thick muscle of his neck. 

“Where the hell have you been—look at you,” Bobby says, still muffled. Rumsfeld’s whining nearly drowns him out. “You’re just fine, aren’t you? Yeah, you’re fine. You did so good. Saved our ass.” 

Maybe if he looks at him enough like this, wiggling and strong, he’ll forget what he looked like when Bobby found his body. The gravity of how it felt to salt and burn his body, and how the boys hadn’t laughed at him for it—that’s one he’ll keep. 

“I’d like to say she would have done it differently given the chance, but however much she changed in the end I’m not sure Meg was capable of that kind of regret.”

Castiel’s voice is close, and Bobby looks up to see him as ever too close, hands in the pockets of his trench coat and a smile just barely pulling on his mouth. 

“Is all this you? The—” With a last hard pat to Rumsfeld’s ribs, Bobby stands, and gestures back at the woods. “Are you makin’ roads, now?”

Castiel’s face tilts up, toward the sun. For a moment, he looks more angelic than he has since the night they met. He was a picture of wrath and power then, but by and large on earth, he’d never stood out to Bobby in that way, but in _this_ light—hell. He’d have sworn for a half a second he saw the there-and-gone flicker of brilliant wings. 

“Yes, and no. Jack and I are setting things right.” There’s a fondness on the boy’s name that Bobby wishes he understood—his grandson, after a fashion, a kid he hardly knows. “Chuck is gone. It’s Jack now—and he’s going to be better. Everything will be.” 

“Yeah? Well, it’s about time. When you see the boys—”

It’s nothing Cas says that gives the truth away, no movement he makes—and still, there’s a powerful instant where Bobby looks at him, and knows. The straightness of his trench coat, perhaps, or something in the way his shoulders don’t look quite so weighed down. Maybe he knew in that flash of wing, or the breath he hears Cas let out, though he doesn’t have to breathe. Some of it, or all of it; it doesn’t matter—not even being in this place can stop the grief that hits him full force, just for a moment. 

“Dammit, boy—” He wasn’t ready, not for the force of the hurt, the sharpness of the memory. His eyes sting with the burn, and for half a second his mind is back in Stull Cemetery, waking up to heavy silence, and the bluest eyes he’s ever seen. 

It doesn’t matter that Cas is older by millennia. It doesn’t matter that technically, of the two of them he is the child. When Bobby hugs him, it isn’t so different from hugging the boys. Not at all. 

Cas leans into him, and there’s an easy peace to it all that Bobby would have associated with Heaven when he was living, but it’s nothing like the place up till now has been. The hurt’s still there in his throat, because Cas _shouldn’t_ be here; it isn’t fair—but he is, and he’s whole, here, and Rumsfeld is frolicking around their knees like he’s never had a better day. 

When they pull apart, Bobby can’t help but ask. 

“The boys, are they—”

“If what I did and what Jack did accomplished anything—” his voice falters, caught on uncertainty or memory; Bobby isn’t sure which. “They’ll be awhile, but it won’t seem long to you. Jack is changing time, how it flows. If this place is meant to provide the greatest peace man can know, and everything you want—the promise would be a lie without your loved ones. You’ll be with them soon.”

“ _We’ll_ be with them soon, you mean—cause if you think they won’t be lookin’ for you, you’re more stupid than I—”

“I know they will, but I have work to do. I’ll see them; of course I will.”

There’s something there, an edge to it all that doesn’t lay flat, but Cas doesn’t give him time to pick at it. 

“While you’re waiting, take a walk. This road will take you where you want to go.”

Yeah. That was exactly the problem he’d already had. 

======

Karen grew up in Saskatchewan. 

She might have left it for South Dakota, but she talked about it often enough that Bobby always knew the prairie still anchored her, as if her she trailed behind her back to her point of origin veins like roots, still tangled with the living grass. The times they visited, he saw the look in her eyes when she was right in the middle of it, taking in a horizon so bright and far it made even him feel disoriented, and he was no stranger to open land. 

In his refusal to go into the forest, it doesn’t surprise him a bit to find himself walking through tall grass, on his way toward a cheery yellow farmhouse putting up smoke against a greying sky. In her corner of Heaven, the air smells heavy with the promise of snow. 

She’ll be inside, putting cinnamon in her coffee. 

The memory of her is suddenly so strong it arrests him, his chest squeezing tight. What the hell right does he have to come to her, now? Not out of bravery, or love—though the love is still there, undimmed. He’s a boy running again, and she is point in his life that felt the most like home, even though he never fully let her in. If he’d been braver, he’d have done better by them both. He might have told himself a dozen times that if she’d lived longer, she could have seen him grow into what he became—and he’s grown, that’s certain, but maybe it still isn’t enough, because he couldn’t follow the path in the woods, and he can’t open the door of this farmhouse. He’s stuck like he’s a spirit again, like the rough and ragged welcome mat is a line of salt he can’t pass. 

The words on it are weathered—Karen always liked old things. 

_Just so you know, there’s a lot of cats in here._

Her childhood cats, he’s sure. Barn cats and house cats, all of them in there with her, weaving around her ankles and sleeping in front of a wood stove. He knows their names; she kept a photo album. She never would have said it, but Pollyanna was her favorite. 

The door creaks open, and he jumps but it can’t be out of surprise. She’s always been braver than he’s ever been. 

“Bobby Singer. Still don’t have the sense to come in out of the cold.” She teases him so thick with love he shouldn’t be able to bear it—not after what he did to her, but there’s nothing but softness in her eyes, and staying still is suddenly harder than going to her. 

She kisses him gently, her fingers petting light over his beard, clinging to the collar of his shirt. 

“Karen,” he says, the first time in God knows how long he’s let himself say her name out loud. “I’m so—”

“Shh. Come on in the house, baby; let’s get you some coffee.” 

Whether she didn’t want to hear his apology or didn’t need it doesn’t really matter—there’s no accusation in her eyes, nothing but acceptance when she pulls him in after her. 

They sit at a log kitchen table worn smooth, and drink coffee that never needs refilling and never goes cold—not even when they ignore it for long stretches of talking, not even when it’s forgotten almost entirely as he forces himself to be brave enough to tell her the absolute truth. 

He was a father, in the end—an imperfect one, but it mattered. His boys matter, and he didn’t hurt them—only in the way that loving always hurts, in the end. If they had had long enough, he and Karen, the two of them could have figured that out together. 

Across the table, she takes his hand, and pulls it between her own. The tips of her fingers trace calluses and hunting scars, the veins of his wrist. 

“You might have surprised yourself,” she says. “But not me. I knew what these hands were capable of, and what they weren’t. I knew you, Bobby—and I was hurt, and I was mad, sure. I said things I shouldn’t have. But deep down, in absolute truth…when I calmed down I would have realized I didn’t doubt you for a second. You’d come around.”

Whoever said there’d be no tears in Heaven was full of shit. 

======

He loved the John Winchester he knew—that’s the honest truth. He’d have been happy to see that man in Heaven, but it’s a damn sight better to see this man he never had the privilege of knowing. 

Mary Winchester’s husband laughs. He plays Kansas and ACDC and Yes on the jukebox at the Roadhouse, mixes it up with The Beatles and The Who just to make his baby smile. They dance in the middle of the floor; they play pool together and argue over which of them is cheating. 

Bobby’s watched them; the answer is both. 

They’re so goddamn in love it really, functionally doesn’t matter how much of a hand Heaven had in them coming together, and how likely it might have been on its own. They’re a thing of beauty together—and sure, it wasn’t that idyllic on earth. A hunter with PTSD and baggage marries a boy who’d been a marine, carrying a second dose of PTSD and baggage all his own. On earth, they could never be 100% smooth sailing, even with all that love—but up here? Up here, Mary doesn’t have her hypervigilance; John doesn’t wake up with gunfire and blood still ringing in his skull. 

The boys could have never been raised by exactly these people, he knows, but Bobby can’t help but wonder what it would have been like if they’d been raised by the closest thing reality could give. No deal for John’s life, no demon blood, no fire. Just the two of them, arguing and making up and trying to be better, loving their kids and each other and scraping out a normal life with normal trouble. In that world, he never would have known the boys at all, but he tells himself that he could want it for them, if it came to that.

He's an honest enough man to admit to himself he’s glad fixing that mess is a power he doesn’t have. On the off chance that grandkid of his is peeking his nose through his thoughts, he offers up an apology for that, just in case. 

_I’m sorry I can’t be sorry, kid. I love them too much. Possession, that’s a sin. Not trying to make you rethink my spot up here, I’m just saying. I won’t give them up. I can’t._

Moments like that, Omaha rises unbidden back to his mind, and he wonders where in his hellish labyrinth of bad memories that night lurked—Rufus on his knees on bloody concrete, crying in a way that hadn’t felt or sounded real. There was something so specific about the deepest pains, something so guttural and raw it came out like a noise no man was made to hear. 

She was already gone, and still he’d kept talking to her, like at any moment she’d sit right up and give him an answer.

_What were you doing here, baby? What were you doing?_

Standing back, Bobby had only been able to let it go on for so long before he gave the answer, and took the consequences.

_Because we needed an exit, so I called, and she answered the phone._

======

“Did you really think you could just keep walking all over this damn place and keep ahead of me? You think that’s how this goes?”

Honestly, he isn’t sure at all how it goes. No one but Jack and Cas know that. He wasn’t sure what he thought—he can’t say Rufus’ voice behind him was expected, not when he can feel his unreal heart beating a snare rhythm out in his chest. 

Bobby breathes deep, silt and fish and a hint of summer berries. Whether he’d have been able to catch it all on a real cliff over the Big Sioux River he doesn’t know, and doesn’t care. This is how he remembers it. He camped here with Rufus, when they were in love and the world had promise. He brought his boys here later, after they’d brought light into his life he thought he’d never have again. Every time he’d ever thought his life had been over, he’d been wrong; another chapter had started, each with its own brilliant beauty. He’d never been able to wrap his head around that, the radiance of all that he’d never deserved. 

“I don’t think ‘damn place’ is the right hemisphere or…whatever,” Bobby says. 

He doesn’t hear Rufus, not as such, but he can feel him moving closer. When you hunt with someone so long, you know their movements like your own. When you hunt with your lover, there’s not much you miss. It’s the makeup of the best teams—he knows that. He’s known it for a long time. 

“Yeah, well I don’t care what hemisphere it is; I’m tired of chasing you, so why don’t you turn around, and stand still, and tell me what the hell you’re doing up here so soon?”

The burn in his eyes is sharp. In the stillness, even the scuff of his boot on the rock is loud. 

Rufus looks good; of course he does. A little younger, a little healthier. The weight of grief and hard years is gone off his shoulders—and if he opened his shirt, there’d be no mark on his chest from where that thing riding his body had taken the life of the man he loved. He aches to see, and shoves his hands in his vest. No sense in letting them get a mind of their own. 

“Been up here near on 8 years, I think. That’s what Cas says anyway, but time doesn’t pass right—even more, now. It’s a work in progress.”

“8 years, and you still haven’t come to the door?”

“Up until last week, I couldn’t—” Last week, or yesterday, or a month ago—when was it? The uncertainty trips him, and Rufus steps forward. 

“You didn’t ask me the right question,” Rufus says. There’s such a steadiness to him, and still, Bobby wonders what the right question is. He’s never been good at conversations like this. 

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. You asked if I could forgive you—and maybe I should’ve, but I couldn’t do that. I couldn’t do that for you when I—it would have occurred me to forgive you. I couldn’t even forgive myself.”

“Rufus—” It hurts every bit as much as it hurt over that fucking autopsy table, and Rufus still won’t let him get away, stepping in. The only place he has to go is back, over the ledge. He wonders, briefly, what a fall would feel like in Heaven.

“No, you listen. Just—just listen.” Rufus’ hands held out in front of him are weathered, painfully familiar. Rufus cups them, a cradle for something precious, unseen but surely vivid in his own memories. “Jaliyah, when she was born, she wasn’t but this small. I could hold her just like that—she was too early, and maybe she would have been anyway, but Victoria hadn’t been taken care of herself, either of them, and I remember thinking then…she was such a miracle. This…this little person that I hadn’t meant to help make, and her momma didn’t want, and she had nobody. She had nobody in the world but me to give a damn that she’d fought so hard to be here, and I had no idea what I was doing. I thought for sure I’d be there to hold her once and take a look and give her up—I wasn’t ready to be a dad. But _she_ wanted to be here—and what could I say, with her looking at me like that? What could I—” His voice broke, near musical somehow even in his pain. “I looked at her, and I realized I’d never do anything that great again in my whole life. If I didn’t step up for her, I’d be a damn fool.”

Bobby could see it, easy. Rufus, young and scared, and that fierce little thing that had hung off Bobby’s arm like a tiger cub the first time he’d met her looking up at him with those too wise eyes. 

“I didn’t think I could ever—I had never been in love. I’d had relationships; I had momma and daddy, but you fall in love with your kids, in a way—and you know that now, don’t you? You love every last goddamn stupid thing about them—I even loved that she wanted to hunt with me, God help me. I loved that she wasn’t sure what she wanted; I loved that she was takin’ art and history. If she wanted to try and live in both worlds, I wanted that for her—but I never, ever wanted to risk any of it for my own skin. That was a rule; that was a line, and you broke it.”

“Rufus, I’m so—” 

The shake his words carried into his breath, as Rufus slashed his hand through the space between them, cutting him off.

“This has _never_ been about whether you’re sorry. I know you’re sorry. I’m sorry. And I hate—” the quiver in Rufus’ words almost matched his own. Another step brought him close enough to touch, though neither of them reached. “I hate that I know why you did it. Because I would have done it for you, too. I'd have called your boys in to save your ass; hell, I have. And you have stood in front of me so many times, and asked me to forgive you and I can’t—Bobby, I can’t. But you _never_ asked me if I still loved you—and why the hell do you think I kept letting you back in? Why I answered when you called me about Dean, wishing I’d heard from you sooner than that?”

Thinking back, those months before Dean’s deal crushed back in on him, a pressure he’d hated, and one he hated that Rufus knew. Loss of a child was not a commonality either one of them had ever wanted. 

“I was desperate,” Bobby whispered. “I couldn’t lose Dean, and I knew—I knew if nothing else you might hate me, but you would understand.” 

In Rufus’ eyes, it’s clear that he did; he does. On that ache, there isn’t more to say. 

His hands close around Bobby’s wrists like shackles—firm and unyielding, though he doesn’t pull. He waits, and lets Bobby’s hands slip from his pockets to finally press palm to palm with his own their own. Their fingers slip together far too easily for two people never meant to align. 

“Did you really think I could give you up? That you wouldn’t be my idea of my paradise—the man I rescued who kept on my tail like a goddamn street dog—”

Bobby couldn’t help but laugh; he couldn’t. Hope was everywhere in him; he was high with it. 

“—the man who loved me enough to defy his own traditions, and bury me in holy ground?” Rufus asks, and doesn’t. It isn’t a question for an answer, but an offering held out between the two of them. Bobby hasn’t seen him smile so soft in years. “So why don’t you let me carry that part I have to be sorry for, and you carry your own—and we try to forgive each other. I think we got time enough up here to figure it out. What do you say, Bobby?”

The last time Bobby kissed a man, he was selling his soul. It’s poetic, really, that this time, he gets to kiss the one he’d rather give it to. Rufus’ beard scratches against his, the tug of it old and full of memory, and he tastes just like Bobby remembers. Whiskey and heat, layered against the scent of cheap cologne that Rufus wears when they aren’t hunting in the wild. It’s too strong; it always is. 

When they break apart, Bobby buries his face in blue flannel, and breathes him in. 

======

There is no scar of death on Rufus’ chest.

Bobby’s memories still tell him where it should be, but the skin he kisses over and over is blank. Rufus doesn’t tease him for it. Some things, even they can’t lighten. 

Without crying, Heaven wouldn’t be quite right. In Zachariah’s Heaven, there would have been no place for it, but in Jack’s, hearts have free reign in a safe space, and that’s as it should be. Rufus is worth crying over; how it felt to kill the two people who’ve held his heart is worth crying over. It mattered, but so does this—an endless stretch of time to heal. 

This is Heaven, the mornings he wakes up in Saskatchewan, and the mornings in the Pine Barrens. A calico cat purring over the quilt at his feet; Aretha Franklin crooning from an old record player. Years ago, he would have said he belonged in neither place, but the truth is, he belongs in both. He always has. 

Rufus’ fingers track along the small of his back, tapping like clarinet keys. His eyes are closed, but in watching Bobby can see the crinkle of his smile at their corners when Bobby kisses his chest one more time.

There’s something tingling under his skin he can’t quite place, but if he had to name it it feels like joy. 

“You should have breakfast with Jaliyah. I think I need to head down to the roadhouse. I feel like—” Saying it, it feels right, a stab of hurt and a thrill of aching hope. “I think I’ll see my boys today.”

He shouldn’t want it; he can’t help but want it—and maybe, maybe it’s not as soon as it seems. Maybe it’s been years; maybe none at all. Either way, he can’t help but want them. He’s never stopped; he never will.

“Well, bring them for supper. I’d like to see those idiots myself.”

They’ll be right on time, Bobby knows. 

This is Heaven.


End file.
